


While the Morning Stars Sang

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Series: There Are More Things In Heaven and Earth, Horatio [2]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angel!Treville, Angelic Wedding Ceremony-kinda, Armand has a crush but is tragically very catholic, Kyele is an enabler, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Wing Kink, Wingfic, this is so sacreligous im going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Treville was a normal man who knew normal things. He was not known for being especially bright outside of military matters,  but he was not dull either. He was, in seemingly all things, ordinary. </p><p>If only that were true, Richelieu could die peacefully. Unfortunately, all was not as it seemed. (He had seen things he should not have seen; seen things that should not exist on this mortal earth.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



Jean Treville was a normal man who knew normal things. He was not known for being especially bright outside of military matters, but he was not dull either. He was, in seemingly all things, ordinary.

If only that were true, Richelieu could die peacefully. Unfortunately, all was not as it seemed. (He had seen things he should not have seen; seen things that should not exist on this mortal earth.) 

The bible spoke of heavenly creatures of light and grace, of beings pure of heart and made of righteousness. He had studied them in seminary, as he had studied all of the Lord’s teachings. Nothing had prepared him for Jean de Treville. Or, rather, nothing had prepared him for the Jean Treville he had seen just a day ago, in dark of the night.

 

-

He shouldn’t have been in the Louvre that late, by all means he should have returned to the Palais Cardinal hours ago. But alas, the needs of France kept odd hours, and he was destined to keep the same as them, even if they did occasionally deprive him of the comfort of his own office and his bed.

(Yet if he had no reason to be at the Louvre so late, then Captain Treville had no reason to be there at all.)

Richelieu came across him just as he was about to leave, fatigue entrenching itself so deep into his bones that he knew he could not stay at the Louvre. The clock chimed midnight an hour or two ago, he encountered no one as he made his way out of the Louvre. Well, no one until when he came across the king’s chambers, and he was jolted out of his weariness.

There, tan skin bathed in white moonlight, stood Captain Treville, all elegant limbs and blue eyes and--- _ pure white wings sprouting from his back. _

Richelieu blinked, rubbed his eyes, pinched himself. Nothing happened. Treville was still there, leaning against a window outside of the king’s chambers, wings still white and on his back. He was beautiful. (It was like  _ rapture _ .)

And it was impossible, terrifyingly real.

He did the only thing he could think of doing at an ungodly hour of the night faced with  a real life angel: he fled.

 

-

He never used to think he would go to hell. He always said his prayers as a child, he excelled in seminary, he studied scripture even in the little leisure time he had. Even though his proclivities were as they were, he never believed he would go to hell for it. Love, after all, could never be a sin. 

Now, he had sinned. Now his blasphemy haunted him from the moment he awoke, and he wasn’t sure if saying the Lord’s prayer however many times could ever be enough penance for it. 

(Was there any penance for sodomous thoughts about angels?  He didn’t believe so. Still, he took his rosary in his hand and prayed, and pretended he didn’t see moonlit limbs stretched out underneath him, didn’t see Treville’s red, red mouth gasping and moaning, didn’t imagine burying his hands in the soft feathers of Treville’s wings while he fucked him,  everytime he closed his eyes.) 

He took out his bible, read, then tried not to dream. 

He did anyway. He imagined Treville seducing him into bed, angelic qualities be damned, imagined Treville’s fingers in his hair as he begged with no other words than  _ Please _ and  _ Richelieu _ , (or, if he allowed himself sentimentality,  _ Armand.)  _ He’d look like a Roman statue, when he laid languidly upon his sheets; Richelieu had always been an avid supporter of the arts.

He wanted---he wanted---(pale skin and breathy moans, Treville staring back at him with those blue eyes of his, smug as he always was when he won an argument. This was an argument of its own, in a way, one that Treville always won, even when submitted. Especially when he submitted. (In his dreams, Treville always wanted this just as much as he did. The actuality of this being true dropped exponentially after that night in the Louvre, but it still never stopped Treville in the dreams. In the dreams, Treville was more succubus than angel. In the dreams he whispered  _ “Armand,”  _ and suddenly all protests seemed void. In the dreams, he and Treville were in love.)) An angel, in love with him? He knew better than to believe in that.

If Treville were an angel---and he was, he was, Armand knew better than to doubt his eyes, no matter how late it was---Treville would be chaste. In fact, Treville’s sanctity made so many things clear. He had never  had any mistresses in his time since he came to Paris---Richelieu had thought that belied other proclivities, but perhaps it had been instead holiness, a chastity that Richelieu had never been able to subscribe to.

Then there was the matter of Treville’s chosen profession of soldiering; a noble profession, though not exactly one of immense maturity, despite Treville’s apparent grace. Angels were god’s soldiers, were they not? beings of light, of righteousness. Of rage and power and beauty. 

(Especially beauty, he thought, imagining Treville with a gun. His hands had been a private source of adoration from Richelieu, the pistol clutched in it a symbol of power. (Of power given up to Richelieu, of submission despite Treville’s strength. And he was strong, Richelieu knew; his hands were calloused by work, by being one of the finest swordsmen in France. Treville was powerful, though in a very different way from how Richelieu was, a far more physical, a far more visceral way. A more honest way. 

In hindsight, it all seemed so clear. If anyone was going to be an angel, it would be Treville. Richelieu should have known that from the moment he set eyes on him. He should have known Treville would be too good to touch. (That never stopped him with anyone else.)

Still, even his former sins were nothing compared to this. This was blaspheme, this was sodomy, all in the most shameful sense possible. To lust after Treville, (or rather, to  _ keep _ lusting after Treville,) when he was what he was, would be a sin even he never thought himself possible of. 

No, Treville was---He could never. Lust was one thing---he could deal with this unbearable want, with this unbearable dream of him---but the dream could never be more than that. (He used to think about it, before. He was always one day away from confessing to him. Now that day would never come.) 

Treville appeared as a normal man who knew normal things. If only that had been true, Richelieu could die peacefully. (Could die happily.) 

Instead, Richelieu closed his eyes and dreamed.

  
  



	2. Glad Notes Of Daybreak (Sins of The Flesh)

 

Treville was here for Louis. Treville had always been here for Louis, because France needed to be great.  And when no one was around the Louvre, and it was late, sometimes, sometimes, he let himself go. It was hard, sometimes, pretending to be a human. It was hard, living in this body and trying to pretend that it wasn’t greater, that it wasn’t supposed to be greater, that he was not supposed to _fly._   
  
So, sometimes, he let himself go. His wings had always been his pride, pure white and gleaming and so different from some of his brothers' and sisters'. (Michael said, once, that when he was created, his wings trembled, only for a moment, then he flew. Sitting in the Garrison and staring at the sky, Treville knew it was true. His wings felt heavy like this, forced into practically non-existence. It hurt. He ached. The sky was blue, and there were few things he wouldn't do to fly through it again.)

It was a night much like that one when Richelieu happened across him. He had finished speaking with Louis, as he often did when all the other courtiers went away, when Louis needed his guidance more than anything else. Now, the king was resting, and Treville had stepped outside, to stare at the sky. The moon had been full that night, filling the hall with pale, white light. Yet his eyes, as they always did, skidded past the moon and went straight to the stars. 

Once, in a time so long ago that it felt like another life, he had seen all those stars be born. Had floated in the black darkness as stardust and hydrogen and  _ life  _ mixed themselves together and began to burn, and Treville had thought he would never see something as beautiful as that again in his life. 

Back before he had to hide himself as a human, back when he could fly whenever he liked, back when the sky was not pain but instead freedom, he used to get so close that he could touch the starbursts, see the millions of different colors that made up the light they gave, the life they gave. 

For a second, it felt like that moment: the  _ rapture _ , the fear, the beginning of some feeling that was impossible to describe. He stared at the stars out that window, so cold and dark from such a distance, and it felt somewhat like flying again. 

Then that fear mixed itself with an unbearable desire, and Treville knew that the emotions weren’t coming from him. He turned, not fast enough to actually see Richelieu run, but he could still feel the displacement of the air, could still feel the faint echo of Richelieu’s  passion. 

He froze; Richelieu knew, now. No one was supposed to know about him, except for Louis. His brothers would not be pleased. But...He had known for some time about Richelieu’s affection for him, about Richelieu’s lust. Perhaps now that he knew, those feelings would stop.  (Some part of him ached at that, some part of him cried in agony. He pretended not to feel.)

Yet he shouldn’t have expected that from Richelieu; Richelieu felt more devil than man, sometimes. He was equally as devout as he was a sinner. He was both hell and heaven’s  finest creature, all at once. Never cruel if he did not have to be, but never kind either.

Richelieu’s desire did not fade with the knowledge of his divinity, but it grew. He could feel it for days after, no matter where he was, no matter how far. Usually he could only feel someone’s emotions when they were a few feet away. Richelieu’s were a tidal wave of self-loathing and lust, of need so strong it made him almost want to writhe and keen.

(At some point, he wasn’t sure where Richelieu’s desire stopped and where his own sickened need began.  _ Thou shalt love all of God’s creatures, _ his sisters had told him. He knew that they never meant it like this.)

In the night it was the worst, when he could feel the ache for him and Richelieu's self-hatred for it all at once, hot and burning at his skin. (But god,  _ god _ , did it make him want, too.)

(Sometimes he wondered if Angels felt more strongly than humans, because there was no way that any mortal could feel this much need and live. But maybe he had never known need like this before.)

 

* * *

 

 

It was days before he managed to look Richelieu in the face again. (Days before his desire overtook his rational thought, days before the temptation overtook him. 

_ (Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,  _ he whispered at night, when it became too easy to imagine what Richelieu would do to him, could do to him. (What he wanted Richelieu to do to him.) Yet all he heard in return was silence. His father did not speak to him, his siblings did not reach out to grant him salvation. This was a test, he knew it. One he was rapidly losing. (When mortals could not find god, they went to men of the church to help them. To priests. To bishops. To _ cardinals.)  _ His Father had sent him down to live as mortals did. (His Father sent him down to aid France.) Surely he would want him to seek help where mortals sought help. Surely his father would not believe him to be above needing help; all of God’s creatures needed help. Perhaps in seeking this help, he could help Richelieu, too. (He was deluding himself.))

So, he approached Richelieu alone, and pretended not to shiver with want when Richelieu’s eyes were just a little too appreciative. “Captain Treville,” he greeted, lacking his usual pretense of disinterest or disdain. 

“Richelieu.” He said. He could still back out of this now, could still walk away and pretend these affections did not exist.  He could still suffer day after day, knowing Richelieu was in reach, knowing he would be his if only Treville could bring himself to allow it, even though Richelieu hated himself for it, for this affection. (It would have been easier if Richelieu hadn’t known, some part of him whispered. (It would have been dishonest if Richelieu hadn’t known.) There hadn’t been any loathing when Richelieu didn’t know. Just the ever-present fear of rejection, in the face of Richelieu’s— _ love.  _ (That was the word for the emotion he could never describe.) He loved him. He  _ loved _ him. He still did love him. And he was still completely out of reach.) “I… Require your assistance.”

“My assistance?”

“On a spiritual matter.”

“A spiritual matter?” He raised an eyebrow. Treville did not need to be able to sense emotions to tell his confusion, though to an outsider he hid it well. “What sort of spiritual matter?”

An extra wave of lust flew through the air; Treville fought the urge to shiver again. He could almost guess what Richelieu had in mind: him on his knees for a reason far different than prayer. (It could be like a sort of prayer, couldn’t it? Making him come undone with his mouth, Richelieu’s hands in his hair, guiding him. It would be devotion, certainly. (Angels were always meant to serve.))

It was only when he heard Richelieu gasp did he realize that he was projecting. He drew his walls up immediately, cut off all emotions, but he could tell from the look on Richelieu’s face that it wasn’t enough. He already knew. (And he wanted him.)

He moved like a man possessed; he needed him, oh _ god _ did he need him. Before he knew it, Richelieu had hands in his hair and was kissing him as though he was made for it, warm lips and wicked, wicked tongue prying him apart. Treville had never been kissed before, not like this. Richelieu pulled him close, tugging at his hair in just the right sort of way—Treville had never known how pleasant pain could feel, before, either. 

When they broke apart they gasped, Richelieu leaning his forehead against his. He was still so close—so intoxicatingly close—yet he held back when Treville tried to chase after his lips. “Treville,” he murmured, voice haggard but at that moment better than the entire heavenly chorus. “I—come. This way, with me. A place where we won’t be seen.” 

Had he been anything close to resembling a proper angel, he would have came to his senses as Richelieu took him to the Palais Cardinal. Had he been anything close to resembling a proper angel, he would have left the moment he kissed him. Had he been anything close to resembling a proper angel, he never would have kissed him at all. Alas, alas, he didn’t do any of those things. He followed Richelieu to the Palais Cardinal with stolen kisses on his lips: Richelieu’s love had poisoned him for anything else but this submission; he had corroded all of his walls against emotional attachment. (Those walls hadn’t existed for time now, really. Probably from the moment he looked at Richelieu and felt him  _ want.) _

Richelieu’s rooms were spacious and gratuitous with the decor. They were also soundproof, he noticed, and he shivered at the knowledge of why that probably was. Oh yes, Richelieu probably talked about sensitive documents here, but they both knew that wasn’t why. He wasn’t the first man Richelieu had brought here, wasn’t the first man who Richelieu wanted to hear crying out his name in pleasure. This made him strangely both angry and trembling with the thought of what it might  _ mean _ , (Richelieu knowing exactly what to do with him, exactly where to touch and exactly where to kiss.)

He stood there, frozen, for a moment, uncertain of whether to go on and certain that he shouldn’t.  What was he doing? There was a reason none of his siblings ever loved like this: (That was a lie. Some had. He just never heard from them again.) It consumed everything. 

And he would drag Richelieu down with him, through this torrent of emotions and lust, drag him into sin with a willing kiss. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. 

Then Richelieu caressed his face with an elegant hand, and his certainties wavered. Oh god, he wanted. He wanted so badly. (If his father had wanted him to resist, why had he given him Richelieu? If he wasn’t allowed to love, why was he bidden to love all god’s creatures? Why was he given a temptation impossible to resist?) 

“Are you having second thoughts?” Richelieu murmured, his voice more a caress than a question. Still, Treville could recognize that for what it was: an out. Treville should take him up on it, he should walk away while he still could. But.(He was never going to walk away.) He didn’t want to. He wanted— He wanted—He didn’t know what he wanted. 

“No.” He said, and kissed him again, tangling his hands in his hair and pretending he couldn’t feel how it would tear him apart in the end. “But—” He stopped himself. He couldn’t do this if he had to ask for it. He couldn’t bring himself to go that far.

“You need me to tell you what to do?”

He relaxed, laying his head on Richelieu’s shoulder. “Yes. Please.”

“Alright,” he murmured, almost transfixed. “Alright. I can do that for you, dearest.”

_ Dearest. _ The name flooded him with warmth, and a sweet kind of contentment which originated from his chest and radiated all over. On a whim, he let his wings unfurl, the tension completely easing from his body. He hummed, it was so much better like this: living without the stress of hiding. 

He could hear Richelieu’s sharp intake of breath when he saw them; could feel the shaky, almost not there questioning touches that skirted around the feathers. “Can I?” Richelieu whispered, and it sounded reverent, it sounded like a prayer. 

His breath shook. “Yes.”

He was unprepared for how pleasurable it would be when Richelieu touched them: his sisters had groomed his wings before, and his brothers too, but it never felt like this. Their touches were always affectionate, but clinical. Meant to keep his wings presentable, not to bury their hands in, not to adore, not to press shivering kisses to the place where they connected to his spine—oh,  _ God _ . He keened, grasping at air when Richelieu divested him of his uniform and kissed every inch of skin he came across. It was too much, it wasn’t enough.  “You’re beautiful,” Richelieu murmured into his neck. “So beautiful. So good for me.”

Richelieu pushed him up against the bed, Treville’s breath hitched. His sinful, sinful, ( _ blessed)  _ mouth trailed down Treville’s chest, and oh lord, it was better than any fantasy he had ever guiltily indulged in, better than any thought of being  _ possessed _ . Being taken care of was so much better. 

Richelieu straddled his hips, Treville immediately bucked upwards in search of some friction, of anything more than the cold air, but Richelieu responded by pushing Treville’s hands down against the bedpost. “I can trust you to keep these here, can’t I?” He said, trailing his hands down Treville’s arms, then his pectorals, before finally resting on his hips. “And that you’ll stay still for me?”

He nodded vigorously, Richelieu laughed and kissed him while one hand deftly untied the front of his breeches. Jean moaned, giving a half-aborted attempt to thrust up into the waiting hand which was so, so close. His breeches came off with ease; Richelieu pressed kisses into the hollow of his thigh, and he was so close Treville could feel the warm moisture of his breath. Tongue joined lips, and the heat of him was unbearable. Treville shuddered so hard he thought he might break. “Richelieu—”

“Shhh,” his mouth left Treville’s skin, and Treville could have cried from the ache. “Call me Armand.” 

_ Armand _ . His Christian name. Treville almost hesitated to use it, in a way it seemed too intimate, in a way it seemed to pure. It felt like if he called him that, there would be no more pretending that he did not have affection for him, that this was something different than him falling prey to sins of the flesh. It would be something close to admitting that he loved him. (And oh, did he love him. Even though he didn’t want to admit it.)

Then Armand buried his fingers into the feathers of his wings, and all thoughts of denying anything flew out of his head when he arched into that touch, begging for something, anything, oh  _ God.  _ But Richelieu, that smug bastard, just chuckled and pushed Treville onto his stomach, burying his hands in the place where his wings met his back. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you,” Armand mumbled, more to himself than to Jean. “You’re perfect. Utterly perfect.” He pressed a kiss to the top of his spine.  “Mine.” 

When he fell apart, it felt like every atom in his body was being rewritten; it felt a little like flight, of soaring past stars and cosmos so radiant he could almost taste the stardust. It was too much, the pleasure surged to unbearable heights. He closed his eyes; Beneath his eyelids, he could see stars being born, and dying.  Armand followed after him with a choked off cry. It was like the beginning of time, it was like the end of it. (If he tried hard enough, he could feel a star going supernova. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.)

 

* * *

 

When he awoke, the sun hadn’t yet risen, and Richelieu lied in his arms. He was beautiful like this, aristocratic features magnified by the pale moonlight. He looked almost unreal, like he was made of marble. His very own Pygmalion, the only person he could ever love. He was perfect. 

But Treville was an  _ angel _ . And no matter how true their love, angels were never supposed to fall in it. Not romantic love. He was only ever supposed to be devoted to humanity as a whole, never just one human being. Never just Richelieu. What had he done? He could never return to heaven like this. Not in the way that he should have. He could never go flying with his brothers and sisters again, could never sing with them amongst the stars.

Richelieu stirred beside him, bleary eyes blinking open. “Jean? What is it?”

Jean wasn’t his name. Not his true name, at least. Still, if it came from Armand’s lips, then he didn’t want any other. Nothing could sound sweeter than that:  _ Jean  _ coming from Armand’s lips, in the early hours of the morning before daylight had broken. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I love you.”

Armand smiled,  in that lazy way that only ever came with sleep. “I know. I love you too. I have for some time.”

“Armand—” He broke off. Perhaps he wouldn’t want him. Human hearts could be fickle, after all. (That was a lie, though. Human hearts could be fickle, but Armand’s never could be. If he allowed himself to feel his emotions, he’d feel it: love, true love, the kind he hadn’t wanted to admit that Richelieu had for him.) “There is no other person in the world whom I could ever wish to be with but you.”

Armand pushed himself up onto his side. “Nor I. You must know that by now, surely.” (He did. Of course he did.) 

None of his siblings had ever loved a human and came back home. They never could. They never would: to be parted from their beloveds like that would have been more like torture than a homecoming. 

Dawn began to break. Jean reached for the words that he had always pretended to never know. Angels could never be wed, but he could be bound to another vow: words that could tie his grace to a human’s soul.  “Never shall I part from you, in this life or the next,” he whispered, taking Armand’s hands into his own. “Never shall I stray from you: I am yours, and yours alone. Nothing shall hold more importance to me than you shall, for you are everything I need. Where you goeth, I will go. Where you die, I will die. And there—There I shall be buried.” Giving up immortality. He never thought that he would come to it. But—

“Jean—”

—A life without Richelieu was not one worth considering. “For you are all I need, and all I ever will.” He whispered, and kissed him. 

Behind them, the sun rose. And—if he tried hard enough—he could pretend a star was being born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. um. This is my (very, very belated) birthday present for kyele, hope you like it friend. Happy Valentine's day, too, guys! 
> 
> First part of the chapter Title (AKA, the Glad Notes Of Daybreak part) comes from a song, but the song is based off of this Walt Whitman poem here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/music-always-round-me 
> 
> edit: So, uh, if you're looking back here after reading it earlier and you're wondering what happened to like, a couple of paragraphs, you're not going crazy. the author got vaguely paranoid about certain legalities, and. well. Paranoia and myself do not go very well, thus the edit. Apologies, friends.


End file.
